All the Things They Said (Running Through My Head)
by Frakme
Summary: Angst, Reichenbach feels, unrequited love, sexual themes, Johnlock. John POV, his thoughts on his feelings for Sherlock through "A Scandal in Belgravia" to "His Last Vow". JW/SH, JW/MM. Part Two of "A Song for the Lovers".


**A/N Title is paraphrased from T.A.T.U.'s 'All the Things She Said. ****John's thoughts on his feelings for Sherlock from "A Scandal in Belgravia" to "His Last Vow."**

**It was supposed to be a light hearted little one shot but it got away from me. Sorry. ****It's a prequel to 'The Name of the Game'**

_Oh my God, don't look, don't look!_ Yet despite his mental admonishment as the sheet slid down the slim, pale back of the detective, his eyes were glued to the edge of the sheet as it just caught the curve of his arse, _his plush arse_, John thought involuntarily. He forced himself to look away but the image was burned on his retinas.

It didn't seem fair to him that a skinny git like Sherlock should be blessed with such a curvy arse. As much as tried to concentrate on the ultra formal and frankly intimidating surroundings of Buckingham Palace, his mind kept wandering to how that arse would feel in his hands.

Trying to regain some kind of professional demeanour, he weakly tried to intervene with the Holmes brothers' arguing. Eventually Sherlock was persuaded to put his clothes on and hear out the client.

He had to confess that when he heard the details of the case he was rather salaciously intrigued about it. He couldn't help but notice that Irene was an extraordinarily beautiful woman, admittedly way out of his league. At the same time he was fascinated by the sniping between Mycroft and Sherlock, the telling reveals of what must have been a rather interesting childhood.

Then his attention was caught by a very particular exchange.

"Don't be alarmed, it's to do with sex."

"I'm not alarmed!" Was it John's imagination or did the detective sound defensive?

"How would you know?" Mycroft replied in a condescending manner. John had the sudden urge to wipe the supercilious smile off the older Holmes brother's face. _Smug twat_! he thought scathingly.

Eventually, Sherlock agreed to take the case and they left, John musing over the exchange. Though it was soon forgotten as they both got caught up in the case, that turned out to be more complex that they had first realised.

* * *

><p>It was a few days later, once the furore had finally died down, that he was reminded of the conversation as he listened to Sherlock playing his violin while John wrote up the case on his blog, wondering idly how long it would take for Mycroft to delete it. Sherlock was facing towards the windows, focused on the violin. John couldn't help notice how…no handsome was an inadequate word, beautiful he looked, the lamplight reflecting off his sharp cheekbones and casting highlights into his soft, dark curls. Now, John knew without false modesty that he was not a bad looking bloke, enough women, even a few men, had complimented him on his looks but Sherlock was in another league. He'd long admitted to himself that, despite his usual preference for women, he was attracted to Sherlock. It wasn't as if he hadn't been attracted to men before, thinking regretfully of his former CO.<p>

Again, he was reminded of how bizarre it was that the detective was blessed with those incredible good looks, graceful ways and lithe yet muscular figure, yet be a completely anti-social knob. Seemed a bit of a waste, especially in the light of Mycroft's insinuation that his little brother was sexually inexperienced and Irene revealing that Moriarty called Sherlock 'The Virgin'.

In all the time he had lived here, he'd never known Sherlock to do anything even remotely approaching dating. He really was, as he said, married to his work. He sometimes wondered if the man even experienced sexual desire, whether he was deliberately celibate or genuinely asexual.

To his dismay, he realised that Sherlock had stopped playing and was looking at him closely, having noticed that John had stopped typing and was staring at him.

"Ask the question then," he said, impatience colouring his voice.

"What?" John stared at him in confusion.

"The question you have been playing over and over in your mind since Buckingham Palace. You want to know if what Mycroft implied was true."

John flushed and shut his laptop. He licked his lips absently, aware there was no point in denying it; Sherlock read him far too well.

"Is it true? Have you never had any kind of sexual relationship?"

Sherlock huffed in irritation and sat in the chair opposite, bringing up his feet and wrapping his arms around his legs.

"I hardly think it is of any relevancy or import. I certainly understand the theory of sexual congress extensively; sex is often a motivator in murder. However I've seen no need to partake of it myself."

"Uh.. okay," John replied, clearly uncomfortable but strangely curious. "But surely you've experience sexual desire, sexual attraction to others?"

"As I have told you many times, virtually everyone I meet is an idiot. Why would I be attracted to idiots? I should only be disappointed. And I haven't experienced sexual desire since my teens. I have my transport under control. Unlike most people."

"You're missing out, mate," replied John, shaking his head in disbelief. He sighed, got up and then put his laptop on charge.

"Right, I'm off to bed. See you in the morning." John left the room, not before patting Sherlock on the shoulder.

He missed entirely Sherlock's eyes following him out of the room and murmuring quietly, even wistfully, "You're not an idiot."

* * *

><p>John walked up the stairs, trying to focus his thoughts on that really fit receptionist at the practice he was now a locum at; the one with the long blond hair, big blue eyes and wicked sense of humour, who he hoped to ask on a date, if he ever got the courage.<p>

Yet, the next time he found himself in need of relief and went to have a discreet wank in the shower, it wasn't the lovely Linda he thought of. No, once again his imagination furnished him with long, graceful violinist's fingers around his cock, cupid bow lips brushing his neck and his hands clutching the rounded, buttocks of Sherlock's plush, untouched arse.

He braced himself against the wall and pressed his lips tightly together, not wanting to be heard by Sherlock's bat like hearing as he brought himself off. He closed his eyes, seeing iridescent green ones and pale skin behind his eyelids.

"John!"

The doctor let out a muffled groan as he released, the after effects of his orgasm rocketing through his body. He let the shower rinse the evidence away before stepping out and grabbing a towel, trying not think about the fact that Sherlock shouting his name had tipped him over the edge.

"John!" Sherlock burst through the door of the bathroom, much to John's embarrassment and annoyance. "Hurry up and get dressed, we have a case!" With a rueful sigh, John did as he was bid, ready to follow his mad, beautiful genius of a flatmate into what ever adventure he would draw them into next.

* * *

><p>John did his best to subsume his erotic thoughts about Sherlock, though that was helped quite a bit when the great bloody git thought it would be a brilliant idea to attempt to drug him, with a fear inducing substance, knowing the ex-army doctor suffered from PTSD. He was still fuming about it days later and it took weeks before he trusted any food or drink the detective tried to offer him. Never mind the nightmares of a vicious hound he'd had that woke him up most nights.<p>

Still, they soon settled back into their equilibrium, an equilibrium that was shattered in the cruelest way possible when he was forced to witness his flatmate's suicide. He thought the nightmares when he returned from Afghanistan and Baskerville were bad, but they were nothing to the ones he had after seeing Sherlock deliberately throw himself off the roof of St Bart's, heedless of John's desperate pleas.

It was ironic to a level that was sickening, that only when Sherlock was dead and buried that he was finally able to face the fact he was in love with him. It crippled him, the overwhelming guilt. He'd shut himself away from everyone, moving out of Baker Street despite Mrs Hudson's tearful pleas to stay, avoiding Molly, Greg and his team, not able to deal with their grief and guilt on top of his own. And as for Mycroft, he had to avoid him otherwise he would probably shoot him. He still couldn't believe that the older Holmes could be so callous as to not even come to own his brother's funeral. Perhaps he'd been too overwhelmed with guilt over the part he played in Sherlock's destruction. Or he really was the machine he'd accused Sherlock of being.

_Oh God, Sherlock, if only I could've taken those words back._

* * *

><p>Eventually he had to move on, helped by having to intervene with Harry, his sister. He'd popped around her flat to drop off her Christmas present to find her passed out drunk and hypothermic, for some unknown reason she had smashed several windows and the flat was freezing, unsurprising as it was five degrees below zero outside. It seemed she had drunk herself into a stupor the previous night. Why none of her neighbours hadn't reported the breaking glass, he didn't know but then she didn't live in the nicest of neighbourhoods.<p>

It turned out she'd gone on a bender as she'd found out from a mutual friend that Clara, her ex-wife, was getting married again. John took to the hospital, then took her back to his small flat, making up the sofa to sleep on, so as let his sister have his bed. It gave him something to focus on; arranging to contact Harry's landlord to get the windows replaced and sort out the costs, getting her back to her doctor for an urgent counselling referral. And it was when he was there that he met Mary Morstan.

Mary, who was pretty and blond, with a gorgeous smile and the dirtiest laugh he'd ever heard. She proved to be intelligent and caring as well when he plucked up the courage to ask her on a date. She'd accepted and he'd taken her to a local pub for a slap up meal. They'd drunk real ale and talked. At the end of the night she'd kissed his cheek and asked him to take her out again.

It was only when he got home that he realised he hadn't thought of Sherlock at all. Maybe he was finally moving on from the overwhelming grief for his lost friend.

* * *

><p>He did tell her eventually, when it was less painful to do so. She'd admitted she'd read his blog, seen all the newspaper articles about him and the famous detective. It was she and not Ella, his therapist, who finally helped him work through his guilt and grief over his friend's suicide, to come to terms with the love that he had had for him.<p>

Mary was good, Mary was kind, Mary was everything he needed right then. Things were starting to look up and it seemed that finally he had a chance at normality. And he ruthlessly squelched the little voice, that sounded suspiciously like a dead detective, that he never wanted to settle for normality and that he desperately missed the adrenaline filled months with Sherlock.

Perhaps then, on some level, he was grateful for the events that eventually turned his life upside down again.

* * *

><p>So many emotions he went through, as he struggled to comprehend that Sherlock Holmes was alive. Rage, hurt, confusion, betrayal but also a white hot sense of relief that he didn't have to grieve any more. It was Mary who had convinced him to hear the detective out. Though being kidnapped, shoved in a bonfire and hearing Sherlock's frantic voice as he pulled him out, saved him from a hideous death also had a lot to do with it. Reluctantly, putting aside his animosity, he worked with Sherlock to save London from a terrorist attack then listened to his normally arrogant friend beg his forgiveness whilst down on his knees.<p>

And it came back, like sunshine after a storm, hot and blazing. He loved this man, needed him in his life so much. And yet now, there was a wedge between them, a Mary shaped wedge.

Mary who loved him, who'd agreed to marry him. Mary who'd healed that gaping wound in his heart, somewhat imperfectly, but at least it wasn't bleeding anymore. Yet he knew the only one who could heal it completely was Sherlock.

He loved Mary, owed her so much. The last thing he wanted to do was to hurt her, not when she didn't deserve it. So he took the love he had for his former flatmate and tried to bury it. After all, he was never certain that his love was returned by the other man. Sherlock needed him but John doubted very much that the detective could love him, could love anyone.

* * *

><p>So John married Mary, surrounded by their friends and loved ones, Sherlock as his best man.<p>

Of course, nothing ever runs smooth when Sherlock is around and so there was a case to solve, a murder to prevent and he and Sherlock saved the life of John's ex-commanding officer. But once James Sholto had been taken care of, the murderer arrested, the wedding celebration began again.

And it was only then that John recalled the best man's speech and in a cruel twist of irony, the other shoe dropped.

_Sherlock loved him_. He _loved_ him. And then he stood up in front of everyone, Sherlock the man who hated most people, loathed the social niceties and despised sentiment, declared a vow to protect the three of them with his life.

It took a huge act of will to plaster the happy smile on his face, when the news that Mary was pregnant sank in. So he missed the flicker of anger and dismay on his new bride's face as Sherlock apologised for his slip up. But John was happy about the baby, he never really hoped he would ever be a father but to find out this way, through the deductions of the man he knew he still loved added a bitterness to the news.

Still he squared his shoulders and danced with Mary, holding her close, telling her how happy she had made him, that he was delighted about the baby and failed to notice two things.

Sherlock silently slinking out of the reception and that Mary hardly looked at her new husband.

* * *

><p>John remembered hearing a song, years ago, by some Irish ex-boy band member. 'Life is a Rollercoaster', it was called. He remember thinking it was cheesy rubbish at the time, deploring the state of modern music. Yet he suddenly realised the young singer was right; it was indeed. At least his was. And frankly, he was about ready to get off.<p>

Only a month after the wedding he found his best friend in a crack den, dirty, unkempt and apparently on drugs. He was torn between fury, disappointment and guilt. Jesus, he'd been married a month and Sherlock had descended back into utter chaos.

If that wasn't bad enough, it seemed he had a case, one that was so dangerous, even his brother tried to warn him off. However, John knew Sherlock would never take any notice of Mycroft. Oh and of course that wasn't even the worst of it. Sherlock had only got himself a girlfriend… Janine, one of Mary's bridesmaids.

He knew, when he reflected on the meeting afterwards, that he'd overreacted. As his best friend, he should be happy that Sherlock had found someone, just as he did. Except it seemed so very wrong. Sherlock had never shown the slightest interest in women, with possibly the exception of The Woman, though Sherlock had always insisted that the attraction was purely on a mental level and never on a physical one. It hadn't stopped John's jealousy of the two of them, especially when she forced John to confront his feelings for Sherlock, feelings he thought he had successfully hidden.

With a deep sense of shame he knew he was once again jealous. He'd hated seeing Janine all over the detective, hated her calling him 'Sherl', hated her parading around in nothing but his shirt and when they kissed he thought he would vomit. And so caught up in his jealousy he was, that he barely took any notice of Sherlock trying to explain the case to him.

Then one faked engagement later, inciting a strange feeling of relief, he and Sherlock had gained access to Charles Augustus Magnusson's private offices.

And a shot rang out, one that nearly ended Sherlock's life. He didn't know at first, who had shot his former flatmate, but when he did find out, never had he wished so much as to unlearn something.

Mary, his wife, the mother of his child, the kind hearted, witty and intelligent nurse. Mary the liar, the assassin, the almost killer of his best friend.

He'd moved out, moved back to Baker Street, ostensibly to help Sherlock recover from the gunshot that nearly killed him, in fact did kill him, he had been clinically dead for nearly five minutes. But really it was because he couldn't stand to look at his wife-mother-of-his-child-assassin-killer.

It was the child though, that made him go back. He couldn't leave her without a father. He wanted her and was afraid for her. What if, he thought, turning the memory stick she gave him over and over in his hand, her past caught up with her? What if she was recognised by someone who wanted revenge for the loss of a loved one?

So he told Sherlock he would go back to her, hating himself as he saw a glimmer of pain in Sherlock's eyes before the indifferent mask came over his face.

"I understand, John. You love her and the baby. You can make a fresh start and I will help anyway I can, you know that." Sherlock had seemed utterly sincere and John hated himself for it, knowing, if it wasn't for the baby, he would divorce Mary as soon as possible and maybe even find the courage to tell the detective that he loved him.

Sherlock generously offered to allow John and Mary to reconcile at his parents' home, as he was intending to go with Mycroft there for Christmas. John was touched by the offer, so he and Mary agreed, though Mary was wary around Sherlock, he was nothing but gracious to her. John thought that perhaps he had forgiven Mary for almost killing him. Though he knew he should've suspected something, that would explain the presence of Billy Wiggins at the Holmes' family residence.

He had his explanation alright; with a laptop of stolen state secrets, they were at Appledore, apparently committing treason. Try as he might, he couldn't conjure up a single iota of regret over the death of Magnusson, except that it wasn't him pulling the trigger.

And the knowledge that Sherlock had sacrificed everything for John was a devastating blow. As was the knowledge that instead of standing trial for murder, Sherlock would be forced to leave the country, working for his brother on mysterious assignments, exiled from England and his beloved London. John would not be permitted any contact with the detective, either.

And so it had been time to say goodbye, to the best, the most human man, he had ever had the fortune to have in his life. A man he loved, who he know he would never get over. Yet there were witnesses, Mycroft, the government man sending his baby brother off to dangerous exile and Mary, the lying, loving wife. Stopping them from doing, saying the things they wanted to say. Instead they said the words others had put in their mouths.

"Sherlock is a girl's name".

_It's alright, Sherlock, I love you too._


End file.
